


Labefaction

by sithmarauder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Carnivale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossdressing, Dancing, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Surrealism, The Dress™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24094501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithmarauder/pseuds/sithmarauder
Summary: “A strange mood has taken the men."In the surreal realm of Fitzjames'Carnivale,Edward Little and Thomas Jopson share a dance.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 14
Kudos: 84





	Labefaction

**Author's Note:**

> Another piece that was supposed to be short and sweet before it turned into something else entirely. Also, Crozier/Fitzjames managed to creep its way in.
> 
>  **EDIT** : now with [some stunning graphics](https://empirics.tumblr.com/post/619603523020226560/proudspires-dangerous-thoughts-whispered-his) by the love of my life, [proudspires](https://proudspires.tumblr.com/post/619603167131385858/dangerous-thoughts-whispered-his-years-of)!

“It’s a few years out of style,” Crozier had said when Thomas first unearthed the dress, one costume among many lingering in the depths of _Terror’s_ storage chests, “but it should suffice, should anyone find use for it.”

Thomas had smiled then, doing his best to keep his exhaustion under wraps and hoping his genuine relief at his captain’s recovery would be enough to maintain the mask. The dress had been folded and put back into the trunk, alongside its burgundy companion, and Thomas had returned his attention to Crozier, where it had been firmly rooted for days on end.

Now, as Thomas surveyed his appearance in the small mirror afforded to Crozier aboard _Terror_ , he found himself hoping the captain’s words held true.

The dress would have been the height of evening fashion once, with gauze sleeves that left his shoulders bare and a silhouette emphasizing a nipped waist, further simulated by a wide belt and full skirts that fell just this side of too short. The colour, at one point a deep navy blue, was muted by time, but it still maintained its elegance and Thomas dearly hoped that it would make up for whatever shortcomings he would be bringing to it.

Fitzjames’ _Carnivale_ had been an idea embraced with enthusiasm by some and scepticism by others, notably _Terror’s_ acting captain, whose brow had furrowed when told of it but who had agreed, surprisingly, when Thomas had mentioned—foolishly, but he would blame his loose tongue on the weariness that dogged his every step—that it might be good for the crew, “and take their minds off of the secrets we’ve been keeping from them.” They’d both cast their eyes towards Crozier’s berth then, where the man himself had been sleeping, peaceful for the first time since this had all began.

“If you think it best,” Edward Little had said, expression impassive, and then he was gone, off to make the final round of excuses to the crew, shoulders squared despite the weight of the burden Thomas knew rested on them.

Thomas reached up to rest a hand at his throat, where a string of surprisingly dainty pearls lay. He’d found them sitting innocently in his temporary bunk earlier that evening, after the others had already left; remembered blinking owlishly at them for a moment before glancing around, as though whoever had left them there might still be lingering.

It’d been a foolish thought. He wondered if he were the bigger fool for putting them on nonetheless.

 _Needs must_ , he reasoned, his eyes wide in the looking glass. _All illusions need aid_. Fitzjames had said as much, had he not, mouth curved into a faraway expression of bitter mirth when Thomas had stumbled across him earlier, too surprised to utter anything more than an agreeable, “ _sir_ ”? Thomas hadn’t hair long enough like _Erebus’_ captain, but he was not immune to his other assets. They would serve him well.

He would make them.

A shuffle behind him alerted him to one of _Terror’s_ only other remaining occupants, and Thomas shot a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Crozier walking in, face still pale but healthier and heartier than Thomas had seen in—

He exhaled. _Too long_. It would be good for Crozier too, this night, Thomas thought. A brief respite before they all geared up to travel south to Fort Resolution, as Crozier had announced almost immediately upon his recovery. That, too, had been met with some scepticism, but Crozier, bright-eyed, sharper than Thomas had seen for years without the drink to dim his light, had spun words that had convinced them all after he’d first announced his intentions to both Lieutenant Little and Captain Fitzjames, with Thomas, as always, in attendance.

“Ready then, Jopson?” Crozier asked, a wry twist to his mouth as he held his arm out, as though Thomas were some great noble lady instead of simply a steward. He had forgone a costume, or perhaps, Thomas thought slowly as he took in the finery of Crozier’s dress uniform, it was simply that he had chosen to present himself at his best for the first time that night. Thomas spared a moment to bask in amusement, letting it wash away any lingering nerves before he straightened, the spine of steel he’d cultivated in his years of service augmented by the stiff reinforcement of the bodice, and inclined his head, the way the lady he was supposed to be portraying might.

“As always, sir,” he demurred, accepting the gesture and allowing Crozier to lead him out of the great cabin and out onto the ice, where they could see the great tent set up for Fitzjames’ _Carnivale_ beckoning, promising warmth and a chance to _forget_.

It wasn’t an immediate heat that met them when they stepped in. The open flap of the tent brought with it the chill from the ice, which reached grasping hands towards the flickering torches, and Thomas drew in a sharp breath that thankfully went unnoticed by Crozier as they swept through the men and their various costumes, the atmosphere pressing down on him and suffusing through his bones before he even registered the slow build of warmth throughout his chilled body.

What seemed like a thousand voices were raised in the confines of the tents, and yet when Thomas—always on alert, always with one ear to the ground—paused to listen, their words merely slipped over him, through him, a strange current that passed him by. Men darted around them bedazzled in strange and fantastical costumes, sinister shadows flickering in the crudeness of their designs, their laughter swirling together and rising to hover above everyone’s heads. Crozier kept them moving forward, his arm firm, but with every step, every breath, Thomas felt as though he were losing his own firmness.

He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. There was something about this place that did not invite words, not yet, and Thomas, used to bridling his tongue, used to being the silent shadow following the captain, knew when to obey that sort of atmosphere.

Crozier exhaled. Thomas said nothing about the hushed _Fitzjames_ that fell from his captain’s lips. Instead, they kept walking, each step taking them further and further away from—from _what_ , Thomas didn’t know, but as they descended further into the strange realm, leaving whatever it was they had outside behind, he noticed more and more men taking notice of them, accepting them into the pantomime world they had built.

Up ahead, men basked in an ancient cauldron, the heat cloying; somewhere else, strangers in familiar faces laughed under fairy lights, unburdened and carefree. There was laughter and shouts, and somewhere Thomas could hear a fiddle singing high above the cacophony.

At some point, Thomas even thought he saw Lieutenant Irving, and he had to blink when he saw the wings stretching out from the man’s back, highlighting the glowing halo that seemed to be hovering over him. He blinked at the strange light that seemed to be emitting from the lieutenant, but soon Thomas was turning his head away, unable to bear its luminescence. He wondered if Crozier saw the same thing. Still, though, they walked, further and further into the realm of _Carnivale_ until it seemed as though the very grounds under their feet had changed, ice and snow giving way not to earth, not quite, but to something else, something beyond them.

And still Crozier kept on, increasingly grim-faced and with a muttered curse under his breath, but even his eyes flickered in the light of the torches, movements faltering, when they followed their ears to where a couple of petty officers were gathered with their instruments, spinning tales and tunes of home, of old lands and the folk once rumoured to walk the forests and roam the hills.

That was where they found Fitzjames, resplendent in a dress of burgundy velvet, his face half-hidden by Titania’s visage, hair spilling in loose curls around his similarly bared shoulders. Even the mask could not hide the _Erebus_ captain’s smile as Le Vesconte lead him through a risqué _volta_ , their familiarity speaking of other times, other places, far far away from the ice that seemed determine to subsume them. Fitzjames’ every step was practiced and sure, his head tossed back gaily, the queen of _Carnivale_ , of their icy midsummer realm, and he only faltered for a moment when, with Le Vesconte’s hand resting on his busk, he caught Crozier’s eye—Crozier, who had suddenly gone rigid at Thomas’ side, his steps ceasing for the first time since they’d entered the tents.

It was there on the precipice that _Terror’s_ erstwhile acting captain found _them_ , but Thomas, who always knew where Edward Little was in a room— _oh, Tom, a chink in the armour at last_ —had already turned partway to face him, breath caught in his throat as the laughter that had previously floated above them seemed to abruptly descend, until Thomas felt as though he were struggling to breathe within the confines of the bodice.

“Captain Crozier,” Little said. “Mr. Jopson.” But there was an odd look in his eyes, almost feverish. He too had abstained from donning a costume, but the light of the tents danced off his brass buttons, reflecting in his dark pupils, and his hair was free from any confines, soft against the glow.

 _Captain Little_ , Thomas thought, the title drifting lazily through his head, almost delirious in nature. _Perhaps that’s the costume._ He thought of Little, of their shared secrets and burdens; of Little, red-faced and frozen as they stood side-by-side in Crozier’s cabin, worry threatening to choke them, bound by their duties and their loyalty to the man beside them; of Little, carrying their lie on his shoulders to Fitzjames, day after day, alongside the weight of the command that had been thrust upon him.

Edward Little had been the iron, strong and dark, to Thomas’ steel, and here, in Titania’s kingdom, Thomas wondered if he would burn were he to reach out and touch.

His eyes flicked to the side, where the queen still danced, absent her stone-faced king, whose grip had tightened momentarily on Thomas’ arm.

“Lieutenant Little,” Thomas said, but the quietness of the address did not prevent it from reaching Little’s ears, not if the way the lieutenant’s attention affixed solely on him was any indication. He was aware of Fitzjames a few feet away, dancing still with Le Vesconte, burgundy skirts a blur, and he felt abruptly _seen_ as he stood there in the navy blue dress, an echo of the rank held by the man before him. The lieutenant’s eyes slid down to the pearls around Thomas' neck.

“You found them,” he said, blinking slowly, but there was a sedateness to them that Thomas had yet to see in the normally cautious, reserved man. Had he not been so surprised by the revelation that it was Little who had left the gift, he might have thought harder about it. Instead, he lifted his hand and rested careful fingers against the delicate strand, aware that his every movement was being carefully watched.

Little seemed to war with himself for a moment, but Thomas saw the moment he made his decision. He was still surprised when Little held out a hand and said, in his own taciturn manner, “may I have this dance?”

Crozier’s eyebrow climbed towards his hairline as he pulled his gaze firmly away from Fitzjames, but he turned his head to Thomas and briefly tapped his arm as if to say, _your choice_ , and while part of Thomas was loathe to abandon the man to his own devices here, so soon, another part of him, the part that had taken one look at Edward Little over the heads of the other gathered officers during that first meeting and _wanted_ , was louder, as though _Carnivale_ were trying to amplify every illicit thought, every secret urge, every dereliction of duty.

Lieutenant Little had the power to ruin him, if Thomas let him. He’d known that from that first meeting, and had sworn he would not be distracted by what was at the end of the day another handsome uniform. Now, though, he was floored by how much he wanted to give in, just this once; how much he wanted to be _weak_ for this man, to forgo the trappings of his station in this strange world that Fitzjames had created and ruled over, an otherworldly queen on her throne of ice.

Thomas would surrender himself to Little, if the man asked. Would let Little ruin him, if he wanted. The thought was enough to frighten him, a moment of sanity amongst the heat of _Carnivale_ , and he opened his mouth to politely refuse, knowing Little would not push— _do I wish him to?_ —

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

There was a peculiar look on Crozier’s face as his eyes darted between them, but Thomas, caught by the way Little’s seemed to have darkened, hardly noticed, even as Crozier handed him over the way a father might his lady-daughter.

“Tread lightly, Lieutenant, and take _care_ ,” Crozier said, and Little had barely responded with a habitual “ _sir_ ” before Crozier was melting into the crowd, leaving them to stand on the edge of the revellers.

“Well then, sir,” Thomas murmured, unable to stop the brief smile that flickered across his face as Edward stepped closer. “Shall we?”

He allowed Little to guide him onto the dance floor, revelling in the hand that rested on the small of his back. The men were cheering around them, and Thomas was not so blind that he did not notice the pointed smirk Fitzjames directed at them as he twirled past, but the music was picking up and so, too, was Little, and Thomas allowed himself to be swept up, swept _away_ , caught in the current of Little’s dark eyes as they moved and spun and _danced_ , until his own skirts were swirling as devilishly as Fitzjames’ and his world had narrowed down to the steady hands on his body and the trill of the music. The ice was a distant memory against the heat of the torches and the intensity of the lieutenant’s attentions, and Thomas found he was drunk on it as surely as the petty officers were on wine.

 _Dangerous thoughts_ , whispered his years of training, _pull back, pull back before you can’t_ , but then the lieutenant’s hands were on his hips, lifting him into the air and sending Thomas’ skirts and petticoats flying, and he could do naught but grip tight Little’s shoulders, unable to tear his gaze away even as he gasped in breathless delight. It seemed natural to surrender to Little wholly after that, to let the lieutenant’s steady hands guide their movements, until Thomas’s feet were moving in ways he had never tried but _knew_ , somehow, the way drowning lungs knew they needed air. They circled each other, he and Little, Little’s hand still firm on the simulated curve of his waist while Thomas held the other man’s gaze boldly in a way he wouldn’t have _dared_ on _Terror_ but here, _here_ , he did not think he could look away even if he wanted to, so caught up in the euphoria of the moment was he.

 _I did not know you could dance_ , Thomas thought, but the words stuck to the inside of his mouth, which felt dry and parched. His eyes were wide and glued to Little, whose own hadn’t wavered, even as he lifted Thomas once more, to the cheers and delight of the men. He seemed at once utterly in command and sure of himself under the lights of _Carnivale_ , a true captain, with none of the weariness or exhaustion or doubt that had so weighed him down as they both struggled to keep the secret of Crozier’s infirmity. It was a side of Little Thomas never seen before, bold and daring and assertive, and Thomas felt drunk on it, though he’d had no appetite at all for spirits as of late.

Others were dancing all around them now, and he could see Fitzjames, eyes wide with surprise, in the arms of a determined Crozier, whose countenance _Carnivale_ had lent vitality. Thomas’ hand tightened on Little’s shoulder (and _oh_ , when had it gotten there, he wondered with a slow blink), eyes lazily scanning their surroundings. It hardly mattered, though, did it? Not when the music was building so powerfully, surging in his chest; not when he could feel Little’s hands so firm on his body, the way he’d always imagined but knew never to let himself indulge in. _Dangerous thoughts, dangerous thoughts._

He met Little’s eyes squarely again. Felt Little’s hand tighten on his waist. Thought, with heat: _ruin me_.

The feeling of a body jostling his own made him stumble, but Little’s arms were wrapping tight around him before he could fall, steadying him. Thomas laughed, breathless, and there was a smile on his face as he looked up, the two of them suspended in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.

“Always so dependable, Lieutenant,” Thomas said, the words little more than a whisper. A queer look flickered across Little’s face, but it vanished swiftly. Still, Thomas flushed, acutely aware of the others around them all of a sudden. _Too far, too far_ , his self-preservation instincts screamed, and he stiffened subconsciously in response to them, reaching up to brush at the lock of hair that had come loose during their dance. He had to leave, he thought. He had been here too long, had let things go too far. His discipline was nowhere to be found, broken down by this place of no structure, and so he turned his eyes back to Little, intending to beg off despite part of him screaming in protest, screaming to _stay_ —

“Some air, Mr. Jopson?” Little suggested, and Thomas, stunned, allowed all the oxygen in his lungs to leave in a rush, so that when he at last spoke his words came out shaky, subdued.

“I think that would be best.”

Little nodded once, resolute, immediately tucking Thomas’ hand in the crook of his arm and covering it with a hand of his own before he led them from the dance floor, their vacant spot immediately filled by eager bodies. He spared a moment of thought for the captain, and his fingers tightened briefly in relief when he spotted Crozier speaking lowly to a now-maskless Fitzjames. Little’s gaze followed his, and he blinked, but like Crozier before him, his footsteps never wavered, and soon they were leaving the throng of bodies, leaving the pervasive warmth. Thomas’ skin was still flushed when they at last stopped, eyes barely taking in the costumed men they passed along the way, and when he glanced at Little’s face part of him was pleased to notice the heat that had similarly gathered in what he could see of the man’s visage.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, for the pearls,” Thomas said, surprising himself and Little with the words, though he covered the slip with a small smile, and was careful to keep his body docile. It wasn’t a hard illusion to maintain, not now. He did not know where they were in the grand scheme of _Carnivale’s_ layout, only that the voices seemed distant here, the atmosphere less cloying. He could feel the chill of the ice again, and he shivered, only to be surprised when, a moment later, he felt the weight of a wool coat cover his bared shoulders.

“Sir—”

Little cocked his head to the side, shook it, and Thomas swallowed his protest, selfishly glad for the extra layer of warmth. Little’s eyes darted down to the pearls resting against Thomas’ collarbone. Thomas flushed again, despite himself. He did not ask how Little had known the costume he would attend in, though he supposed he should not be surprised. Little was more observant than even Thomas himself had initially given him credit for—and perhaps more than Little gave himself credit for. He did not always know how to respond, but—he _saw_. And Thomas, unused to being seen, could not suppress a small shiver—whether fear or something else he did not dare explore—at the idea that perhaps, this whole time, Little had been seeing _him_.

Thomas shuddered. Wondered, what it was, that Little saw, so that he might cover it up again; pretend, even for a moment, to be as unbending as his position required him to be.

 _Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever—one foot in sea and one on shore, to one thing constant never._ It was a warning that his mother had whispered once, in one of her deliriums, lifted from a script that a younger Thomas Jopson had not the education to appreciate. He hadn’t thought about it in years, but he thought about it now, as he had thought about his mother many times since Crozier had taken it upon himself to cease his dependence on the drink.

And yet, though they should have served as a warning, they only emboldened him. Had Little not proven his loyalty, time after time, at the cost of his own self? Had Little not been one of the sole dependable men Thomas had encountered on this cursed expedition? _One foot in the sea and one on shore, to one thing constant never_. There was no sea now, swallowed up as it was by the ice. Now, there was only the shore, and the constant weight of Thomas’ preoccupation with the man in front of him, and the sudden knowledge that that preoccupation was not as one-sided as he had believed.

 _He’ll ruin you, and you’ll let him._ It had been foolish to leave the crowds, Thomas could see that now. The crowds kept him safe, kept him from bending. Now, there was no one and nothing but the weight of his own desires, and the weight of Little’s gaze, a heavy, _heady_ thing. Little looked at him like a dying man given salvation, and Thomas, only too aware of his own body, could only imagine he looked similar.

He drew the coat closer around him, Little’s proximity a searing line of heat across his front. He shivered again, but this time, it had nothing to do with the cold.

“A strange mood has taken the men,” Thomas whispered. Little’s lips parted. Thomas wondered if the sudden hunger in his gut reflected in his eyes: his shame, his want. _Sigh no more_ , he thought, leaning forward. _Sigh no more_.

When Little’s mouth covered his, Thomas closed his eyes, and blatantly flouted the advice of playwrights long dead. _Ruined ruined ruined_ , he thought wildly, but then Little’s hands were on his arms, his mouth hungry against Thomas’ own, and all he could do was let out a keening sigh as Little took control, took _command_ , showing none of the discomfort that Thomas had often seen him show in the daylight hours; none of the weary exhaustion.

 _Please_ , Thomas thought wildly, his own hands reaching out to grip the front of Edward’s vest and haul him forward, pressing as close as he could, desperate for the contact, the heat. It was everything he had built up in his head, and yet it was nothing like that at all, and he wondered for a brief moment if it was even _real_ , or if it was just another illusion of this place.

A gust of wind from the outside was like a bucket of cold water, but instead of deterring him, it only made Thomas more determined for contact, for the heat and warmth of the man in front of him, who was pushing him back, _back_ , until his spine connected with one of the wooden supports and Thomas broke the kiss with a gasp, quickly swallowed. There was a hand at his hip, at his skirts, sliding up against the thigh of the leg he’d hooked around Little’s waist, cold against his flushed skin. The chill was delicious, and he craved more, just like he craved more of Edward’s gaze upon him, _only_ him. _You’ve been seen_ , he thought, _no, no._

_Yes._

Then the chill was gone, the men were screaming, and Little was turning, the both of them breathless and wide-eyed. Time slammed into them with the force of a battle-primed cannonball just as the smell of smoke drifted to them on the crisp air, and, flushed and wrecked and _ruined_ , they rushed towards calls of _fire,_ tearing through the ranks of panicked men to where a wall of flame had gone up, separating them from the souls trapped inside. Thomas covered his mouth with a gloved hand, the weight of Little’s coat suddenly too heavy, too _much_ , and then he and Little were throwing themselves into the rescue effort, desperately hoping they weren’t too late even as the carefully constructed realm of _Carnivale_ burned around them.

In his service to Crozier Thomas had seen many things, from the mundane to the otherworldly, but he thought the smell of burning flesh would stick with him forever as he and Little joined those trying to assist in freeing the men trapped within the burning tents. The navy dress, lovingly cared for for all the years it had spent in a trunk, would bear the traces of human suffering in its charred and blackened edges, and it would be with grim determination that Thomas hacked bits of it off to give to Goodsir who, in the span of one evening, had become the expedition’s only living doctor.

Little would be there, too—a constant ghost in the periphery of Thomas’ vision, commanding and commanded, doing his best to hold the men together in the service of their captains: iron, strong and dark and reliable. _Perhaps_ , Thomas thought, in between lending his own aid, spine bending this way and that, _I was the blasted magnet this whole time._

Hours later they stood in their woollen coats, Welsh caps pulled down over their ears, and watched as Fitzjames walked amongst the dead, grief rending Titania’s wings and leaving them in tatters. A coat Thomas recognized as belonging to Crozier covered his shoulders, his torso, concealing everything underneath, but Thomas’ eyes flicked down to the dirtied and torn hem of that burgundy dress, exposed by the too-short coat, and part of him ached. 

_Ruined_. The word vibrated within the confines of his skull, and he grimaced. He said nothing, for it was no longer his place. In the face of Fitzjames’ grief, in knowing the burden _Erebus_ ’ captain was placing on his own shoulders, he could only keep his own feelings close to his breast and watch as Fitzjames’ hands came to rest on one of the burnt corpses, but just as Crozier moved to intervene, Thomas felt another presence come to rest at his own side.

He did not have to turn to know that it was Little who stood there.

“Mr. Jopson,” Little said, and Thomas exhaled, shaky, too tired to summon even his cursory smile.

“Lieutenant Little.”

There were no more words, at least not between them. The spell of _Carnivale_ had not just been broken, but irrevocably _shattered_ , and the trek to Fort Resolution now seemed more daunting than ever before. Thomas could not allow himself to break again, could not invite more ruin. Steel and iron had their melting points both, and Thomas worried that the flames of _Carnivale_ had warped previously straight edges into lumpy bits of metal, unfit to use.

A hand at his elbow nearly startled him, and he did look up then, straight into the lieutenant’s eyes, which seemed impossibly warm in the face of all the snow and ice and death. For a moment, Thomas almost hated him, but he couldn’t, not really. He was weak for this man, was he not? Too weak. He had invited that ruin, and now he had to live with it.

If he lived at all.

His mouth curved into a wry smile at the thought, one he had refused to allow himself to entertain, even as he accepted it as a potential inevitability. He was compromised, he saw that now, and confirmed it by allowing Little’s discrete touch, leaning subtly into it, even, the very fact that it brought comfort enough to confirm his own worst fears. Maybe Little was compromised as well, though Thomas had precious little knowledge with which to compare for a sure answer. So many things about this place did not seem real, _could_ not be real, and yet they were. Perhaps the way Little looked at him, oriented himself around him, was real too, in its own way.

Ahead of them, Crozier raised Fitzjames to his feet. Standing side-by-side, as they had so many times before, Thomas and Little watched as _Terror’s_ captain lead the master of _Erebus_ back to the sinking ships. Little’s hand remained firm on Thomas’ arm, hidden by their coats, and only dropped when Thomas at last stepped away, facing him full-on.

“Sir,” he said, and Little watched at him for a moment, gaze steady, as it always was, before he nodded his head. But as Thomas moved to walk away, to let Little resume his command, he was stopped by a firm but gentle hand on his wrist, and the feeling of something being pressed into his gloved hand.

“Jopson,” Little murmured, and for a moment, caught in the lieutenant’s gaze once more, Thomas almost thought he could see the walls of _Carnivale_ before reality took its icy hold and he was left staring at Little’s retreating back, alone on the ice.

It did not even occur to him to ask how Little had come by the pearls.

Later, as Thomas stood in his berth for the last time, the strand clutched shakily in his hands, evidence of his own weakness, he could not help but laugh at his own predicament, his own folly. His mind swam with images of an endless trek, of the long expanse of _nothing_ that marked this place, devoid of all warmth and care, but for—

His fingers closed around the strand of pearls. Slowly, deliberately, he placed them in the pocket of his overcoat where they sat a heavy weight, a useless _bauble_ that he should leave behind but could not bring himself to, a little piece of warmth and the impossible.

 _You torture yourself_ , Thomas thought, mind swimming with thoughts of dark hair and dark eyes, of steady command and unwavering, ironclad loyalty, of a mouth hot against his own and hands desperate for purchase. _Perhaps he does as well_. Then he straightened and closed the door, knowledge both new and old swirling through his head. They would march, and perhaps they would even make it. He would place his trust in Crozier, as he always had, and perhaps they would yet manage to achieve the impossible and escape the destruction the ice seemed so determine to bring about. They would be able to return home, and put this place, and its follies, behind them. It was what he wanted. _But do you, Tom?_

With deft steps, he slipped into the captain’s cabin for the last time and summoned the veneer of _captain’s steward_ once more. Seen but unseen, and unheard as well; a ghost among what little remained of their command crew. It was as it should be. And yet—

There was that weight again, familiar, pressing down on his rigid spine. Slowly, Thomas turned his head, and there he met Little’s eyes over the heads gathered officers (so few, _too few_ , _God help them_ ). It was enough to stop him in his tracks, and together they stood, suspended in the face of time, even as an icy chill reached into Thomas’ chest and _seized_ , warring with the heat the pearls seemed determined to sear against his thigh. Looking at Edward Little then, Thomas knew, with a dread certainty, that they would not be escaping this place further unscathed. Dead or alive, _Carnivale_ had been a shift, and Thomas—

Thomas knew parts of him had already been ruined, sullied beyond repair. For after all these years, all this time, he had finally found a force strong enough to bend steel.

**Author's Note:**

> \- _“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever—one foot in sea and one on shore, to one thing constant never.”_ From Much Ado About Nothing, act 2, scene 3. Charles Edwards is a gift, and it was a thrill to see him in _The Terror_.
> 
> I take prompts and cry about history daily on my [tumblr](https://empirics.tumblr.com/). Come find me there! ❤


End file.
